His question burns in my mind. I sit at the table and listen to my father rant about me going to the ball tonight. For the first time, I want to scream at him to shut the hell up. I’m dressed and sitting at the table instead of hiding. For one moment in my life, I am doing just exactly as he wishes and yet he isn’t happy.

I’m going to the ball because it’s the only way I know to contact his Grace. My courage doesn’t extend to visiting his house. I’m not sure my courage will last long enough for me to tell him I have nothing to lose.

It’s been difficult to admit that fact to myself. It’s been heart wrenching and painful. Much like amputating a limb would be, I imagine. My family surrounds me, but I’m not a part of them. They are living their lives in the narrow confines of the society they love. I’m not living at all. I’m merely existing, pushed outside of their circle and watching them as if they were actors on stage, playing at being loving caring people.

Staring at my father, I feel a strange weight lift from my chest. All my life I feared losing his love and respect. Then I catch a glimpse of the marks on my back and I realize I never had them. He hates me and always has. Nothing I do will ever bring that back to me. Not once has a kind hand been held out to me. Not even my mother cares what happens to me. She turned her back on me the day I was born and has never looked at me since then.

A stinging slap captures my attention. Quickly I drop my gaze. My father sees any confidence in me as a direct challenge. Without thought, I run my finger over the angry marks on my wrist. My last desperate cry for some sort of acknowledgement. If not for my uncle, I would have bled to death and that is another reason why I feel some obligation to my uncle. Whether he knows of my affliction or not, he still welcomes me with some sort of warmth. My father would have mourned in public, but rejoiced in private at my death.

I tune him out as he begins his tirade. In my mind, I imagine Greyson’s face. I recreate the touch of his lips and the feel of his body against mine. How could such a man like the Duke suffer my touch?

Yet he revels in it and seems willing to do whatever he must to suffer my hands again. My soul hungers for his taste and heat. If I’m depraved and insane, I will wallow in my perversions with a glad heart as long as he is with me. His touch is kind and gentle. Though I have spent precious little time with him, he sees me for what I really am and he doesn’t turn from me. I long for him to embrace my lonely soul and show me that I’m not a freak. I want him to prove my father’s words wrong. I’m not the devil’s spawn. I won’t destroy everything I love. I can survive outside the cage they have forced me to live in.

Lord Greyson has given me the keys to my freedom with two kisses and a sad smile.